Page 34 of Voice to Raise
“That sounds like it would be a good fit.” Ty turned his attention to me. “We don’t advertise that we sell Malik’s CDs, but we like to support local artisans. Local artistes.”
I wasn’t certain what to make of the man. He was medium-height, slender, with a lovely face, luminescent blue eyes, and high cheekbones. His midnight-black hair flopped in justthatway. Something I could never manage and therefore kept mine short. “That’s good of you.”
“Well, I’m a huge Razor Made fan.” Ty offered a sheepish grin.
“They are unique.” I hadn’t gone through their entire catalogue, but I could see how this oasis of calm and paradise wasn’t a place to play hard rock music.
“Mr. Forestal? I have your order.”
We pivoted our attention back to the food counter where a canvas bag with what appeared to be our food containers rested.
“Thanks.” Malik grinned. “I’ll bring the bag back when I return with the CDs.”
“That would be appreciated.” The young woman beamed.
Is everyone enthralled with this guy? Sheesh.
Admit it…you find him sexy as well.
Yeah, but—
Didn’t you jerk off to his image while in the shower last night?
Heat raced to my face. Luckily, no one seemed interested in me. The entire focus was on Malik.
He snagged the canvas tote. “Thanks for this—I’ll be back before you close.”
“Can’t wait.” Ty gave a little wave.
“Looking forward to it.” Our server beamed.
Malik nodded, finally appeared to notice me, and came to stand by my side. “Shall we go?”
“Sure.” I was a forty-year-old man who wasn’t going to feel hurt because the guy I was with was super popular and, for a few moments, appeared to have forgotten my existence.
We headed back onto Hastings Street, this time heading west.
“Those are storm clouds.” Malik switched the bag to his right hand so he could place his left at the small of my back.
Admit it…you like this side of him.
We still hadn’t discussed the parameters of touch. Given I’d thrown myself at him last night—and he’d reciprocated, or at least returned, the affection—it seemed a safe bet that he wasn’t concerned about us getting up close and personal.
“How do you know they’re storm clouds?” For all my migraine-suffering days, I rarely gave the type of cloud any consideration. Clouds meant a change in weather. I gave forecasts far more weight—barometric pressure, humidity, and all that shit.
“I, uh, did really well in cloud class.”
I nearly stopped walking, but we had the light to cross Hawkes Avenue, so I kept moving. “There’s a cloud class? How did I miss that?”
“The benefits of a classical education.” He said the words even as he directed me to continue south on Hawkes toward Pender.
“What are you talking about? Did you go to some special school for violin prodigies?”
He snorted. “My father would’ve loved that. No, I went to a regular school—at least my mom supported me on that. Still, one of the most exclusive high schools in Vancouver, though. Excellent academic achievement was a requirement of my father’s. I was near the top in every class.”
I caught a glance of a wince.
Still, he continued on. “Clouds were in grade school and, I admit, I found them endlessly fascinating. For a kid like me, whose mind was always wandering, the ability to just lie quietly and watch the clouds roll by was a treat. Those moments calmed my mind. So yes, I got one hundred percent in our unit on clouds. I didn’t do as well in the dissection class in high school biology.” He shivered.
